My History

Despite wildfires and book burnings The Story, The History lives on: Rustling whispers last longer Than anything flammable, Can be hidden for generations. Word of mouth and rustle of leaves Carry a precious cargo Yet are by no means inept. The veins, the shape, the tint, May not remain untouched – But revisions are not fallacious, For history is never complete but Always increasing, swelling, expanding. History becomes, does not remain. Is history not the people, Their forest, their civilization? As carriers of their own cargo Their words ring truer, increase Through time: Become, become, become.

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